


Testing Ground

by Sealurk



Category: Stargate SG-1
Genre: Gen, Groom Lake, Nevada, Training, area 51
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-22
Updated: 2012-07-22
Packaged: 2017-11-10 12:37:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,238
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/466361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sealurk/pseuds/Sealurk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Stargate Program continues to grow, with the SGC alone fielding twenty-five SG teams, not to mention the Atlantis expedition, the crews of the 304 fleet, off-world base personnel and even the civilians who build those bases... so where are they trained?</p>
<p>This is (possibly) the first in a series of fics covering the character of Brigadier General Robert Turnbull as he endeavours to provide ever growing numbers of very highly trained personnel and overcome the unique challenges of working in the Stargate Program.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Testing Ground

_October 9th, 2008_

"...and the Canadian Defence Minister hasn't confirmed yet, but his staff are suggesting you'll have to delay the exercise after all – they say they can't guarantee total secrecy for the thirteenth through twenty-second of March yet, but the implication is that the DoD isn't meeting the agreed investment plan on time, so you'll have to get in touch with General O'Neill about that. Lieutenant Bellamy has been pulled from training entirely for medical reasons – Doctor Turner says he'll need a few months to recuperate, after which he'll be returned to his original unit."

"Alice, I'm not sure I want to know, but... what medical reasons?" Brigadier General Turnbull asked his secretary, sighing and stifling a yawn as he examined his empty coffee mug. It sounded like the latest disaster to hit his heavily strained schedule and budget, and the early hour didn’t help. Reveille hadn’t been long ago, not helped by the fact that he had slept fitfully. Alice didn’t seem remotely fazed by the early hour as she continued to speak while reading from her notes.

"He took eight Intar shots to the chest, General," she replied flatly, without even looking up.

"Wait - Intars aren't dangerous, that's why we bought them from the Jaffa, it doesn't matter how many times you get shot," he said, confused. It was too early to be dealing with things like this, he decided. As yet only the very first rays of golden sunlight were pouring through the window of his tiny, spartan office.

"Actually, they are dangerous when you're seventeen feet above the ground, crawling along the top of a large boulder in what eyewitnesses on both teams report was an allegedly very poorly planned attempt to get into the enemy team’s base. He broke both his legs and cracked two ribs, and he has a mild concussion."

"Oh for the love of God, not another one. For every hero of the SGC you get ten of these moronic wannabes. Crap... what's the fallout from that?"

"Colonel Johnson has failed him and put SGP-13 on standby until his replacement has passed selection."

The Brigadier General's gaze shifted as his secretary continued to expound the incident that had robbed his command of another team leader in minute, interminable and sterile detail. It was at times like this his mind wandered.

His office was a depressing place to run a base from, an unpainted, concrete-walled box with a single small window. It was barely furnished apart from the plain, undersized metal desk and a few pieces of standard military furniture that had seen better days. A handful of framed photographs, certificates and commendations sat bunched together on one of the drab grey walls. It occurred to him with a hint of jealousy that Hank Landry's office was better than this, and he worked a mile underground where space was at a premium. But then he'd never been one to spend more of his budget on himself than was absolutely necessary – to Turnbull it was a case of essentials only, the rest you make do without or pay for yourself. With his perpetual budget problems he didn’t have much of a choice anyway.

Sighing, he turned his attention back to Alice Simpson, his civilian secretary. The NID had repeatedly warned him about her when the Department of Defence had decided to transfer her to his command – now he wished he had listened to them. She was indeed one of the most frighteningly organised, ruthlessly efficient and psychotically officious members of their administration staff, often to the point that it almost seemed like she was precognitive – she knew what he wanted, was going to say or was going to do before he did, it seemed. He wondered idly if she was in any way related to the bespectacled chief master sergeant he’d met at the SGC. His daydream snapped back to the business at hand – Bellamy's backup.

"When will that be?" he asked without a hint of interest, his head propped up on the far-too-cheap metal desk by his left arm. He gazed at the monitor of the slightly out-of-date PC with undisguised contempt and loathing. That computer was a symbol of everything that had gone wrong with this job. Being headhunted by O'Neill to lead not just the Stargate Program but the whole of Homeworld Security's – and by extension the International Oversight Advisory's – military training facility had seemed like the most perfect, desirable career move he could have made. In no time at all he had been promoted from Colonel and was being granted command of a secret facility in Nevada, across from the Groom Lake research and development base and charged with the education, training and shaping of the men and women who would go on to protect the entire planet from extra-terrestrial threats. More importantly, he had been granted almost carte blanche to do so. Four months later, he hated his job and had begun drinking again after almost three decades without touching a drop. He was drowning in bureaucracy, budget cuts and impossible deadlines.

"Captain Hilliam hasn't even been fully vetted yet. Four weeks has been suggested as the fastest the NID can get it done to a satisfactory degree, and you remember what happened the last time they accelerated the vetting process. Things get missed," she prompted.

General Turnbull groaned for the sixth time in an hour. He'd found from experience that his secretary was stern, emotionless, cold and insensitive, and barely had any discernible personality beyond a constant low level degree of contempt for everybody and everything around her. For a moment he daydreamed about locking her in a room with one of the Aschen, smiling to himself as he imagined the alien human huddled in a corner screaming "I'm sorry, I'll tell you everything, just get me away from her!". She was staring coldly at him again though, barely allowing him two seconds to digest this latest morsel of bad news before ploughing on with the updates. He snapped out of the latest daydream, almost feeling guilty.

"General Landry says the Basic Offworld Orientation Mission will have to be moved back to the nineteenth, because the Alpha Site's having maintenance problems with their iris again, but he can free up the fifth and sixth of next month for the OCT-As since the Jaffa cancelled the talks," she said, not once looking up from her clipboard.

"We have a choice? SGP-7, 8, 2 and 5 have been waiting two months for their Crazy Eights, damn it," he grumbled. The Offworld Combat Training – Advanced missions were the final test of any provisional SG team before assignment to active duty, and their nickname, the Crazy Eights, was too well deserved. "Fine... that'll have to do, just get confirmation in writing from Hank – I know what that guy's like. What else?"

"Groom Lake wants to know where their new marine units are because the Daedalus is due back in three days and they haven't received the replacement security teams. The latest shipment of Intars is now two weeks overdue. Apparently relations with the Jaffa are..." she said, searching for the most delicate and calculated way of describing the situation.

"F.U.B.A.R.? Reduced to toxic ash at the bottom of a flaming pit in Hell? Truly, royally, monumentally screwed?" he offered, smiling cheerfully. The roller-coaster ride that were Tau'ri-Jaffa relations had recently pitched downwards into a five hundred foot vertical drop, and although it sounded like the IOA was pulling out all the stops to arrange talks and make concessions it also sounded like it would be a while before they were on good terms again, or at least terms good enough to consider proposing. The latest round of the Jaffa-Earth Trade Agreement talks had stalled once again over concerns of too many conditions, and too much perceived control and interference by Earth in the rebuilding of the Jaffa homeworld, Dakara.

"...I was going to say frosty, at best. The negotiations will have to start all over again," she said.

"Let me guess, this also means the exercise has been scrubbed, right?" Turnbull had been looking forward to the large joint war games he had been planning. He looked wistfully at the large folder on his desk containing the plan that he’d meticulously drawn up, a plan covering the entire programme including space combat manoeuvres known as Exercise Orbit Storm, which would have seen the Apollo and her F-302s practice orbital engagement tactics alongside and later against Jaffa Ha'taks, Al'kesh and Death Gliders. At the same time, the ships would be supporting a joint simulated ground engagement in which Jaffa troops would work alongside Earth soldiers, learning how to combine their disparate tactics and strategies into a single unified instrument. In the wake of the Ori conflict, both governments had learnt the hard way that despite their military power, they were far from invincible. The rise and ever-growing threat of an increasingly bold and aggressive Lucian Alliance, even splintered into factions, meant that Earth could not be complacent about the stability of the galaxy, and that was without considering threats outside the Milky Way – a Wraith attack on Earth could never be ruled out. Now these vital and much anticipated exercises had likely been cancelled – and another chance to get offworld and away from this job for a while had slipped through his fingers.

"It hasn't been formally announced by the Secretary of Defence yet, but yes, that seems almost certain. And finally, General O'Neill has refused your requested budget increase – he says four is the very best he can manage."

Turnbull covered his eyes with his hands, groaning again. He had a thirty-six per cent increase in trainees over the last month, but only a four per cent increase in budget – and he'd been dangerously close to the limit of his spending abilities four weeks ago.

"Well, I suppose we can cut back on non-essentials. Fire the canteen staff, restrict recruits to one self-served meal of bread and water a day, limit every building to one light bulb and a round the clock ban on actually using them and then sell all our ammo, blank and live. Tell the recruits to say ‘bang’ instead. And make sure you do it yourself so I don't have to pay anybody else," he said, raising his head.

"Of course, sir," Alice said automatically and humourlessly, patiently tolerating the Brigadier General’s tired joke, "I'll get right on it. However, in the meantime –”

"No meantime, Alice... I'm going for a walk. I need air," he said, sighing and grabbing his jacket.

***

Turnbull looked around the landscape that was more or less his little portion of Lincoln County, Nevada. There was a surprising chill in the air, partly because it was October and partly because the sun was just rising over the mountains of the Groom Range, casting an amber glow over everything - dawn in the desert. Grateful for the mountains that hid the NOTE from the prying eyes of the few members of a public far more concerned with the vast complex on the other side of Groom Lake, Turnbull looked around at his camp. It was unremarkable, little more than a collection of boxy, nondescript buildings sheltered by a mountain and bordered by several wide open areas. The country might just be waking up, but the NOTE was already in full swing. Even this early in the morning, recruits were being put through intense physical fitness drills around the camp, looking exhausted and near the breaking point, and he smiled as he thought, If they think that's tough, wait until they get to P3G-T65 for High Gravity Acclimation and Combat Practice. There was a reason the HGACP course was known informally as the Breaker.

Wandering through the grounds of the simple base, he noted two provisional SG teams using one of the four fibreglass and acrylic Stargate mock-ups to practice gate defence and assault tactics... and he noted seven dangerously naïve mistakes in the few seconds he observed them. These were seasoned soldiers, drawn from elite units, most of them having seen active service in Iraq and Afghanistan, but the special character and unique requirements of Stargate operations meant it was often like he was training green recruits – often they had to unlearn a lot of their training and reliance on systems or units simply not available once they stepped through the Stargate, completely relearn even the most basic tactics and combat doctrine after they had been modified to suit alien worlds, hostiles and situations, then on top of all that learn how to adapt swiftly to unforeseeable and unconventional circumstances. He considered going over and giving them an earful for their shoddy tactics, but he knew he could rely on Colonels Johnson and Stubbs to do much the same.

Though still simply constructed and barely equipped, the Nevada Offworld Training Establishment was not the brand new installation Turnbull had expected. The facility had been designed quickly and construction had begun shortly after the existence of the Stargate was disclosed to the permanent members of the United Nations Security Council in anticipation of numerous requests for Stargate operations by the other nations that never materialised. It had been intended as the first dedicated facility for the training of potential SG teams, SGC security, Atlantis personnel and Daedalus-class crew – and in fact anybody who would go offworld or deal with the extraordinary, military or civilian. At the IOA’s behest they had even started running a stripped down, much less punishing one-day course for dignitaries, administrators and short-term or low risk Stargate travellers that covered little more than basic orientation and procedures to follow in the event of any number of scenarios.

"Ah, the old walk-and-talk routine. You know me well, Bob."

Turnbull turned lazily from his vantage point, staring at the silver-haired, blue-uniformed officer behind him. An all-too-familiar face beamed back at him, and he groaned under his breath.

"Don’t call me Bob, and no offence but what the hell are you doing here, Jack?"

"Can you at least salute your superior officer when you insult him?" Major General Jack O'Neill replied in mock offense. Turnbull knew most officers would have jumped on a subordinate for not saluting them, let alone talking back to them like that, but Jack had always had little time for such things, especially from people he knew as well as Turnbull. As long as they maintained respect, he had no problem with a more casual, informal manner. But Turnbull also viewed it as a measure of karma – in return for his casual manner towards his superiors over the years, he was now on the receiving end almost constantly.

"Hey, that wasn't an insult – trust me, you'll know when I insult you. So... what are you doing here? Surely there's a budget you can be slashing back at the Pentagon? Mine, probably. Or is it getting too dull in DC?" Turnbull said, turning away and strolling past a fake Stargate. A group of trainees were receiving an intense chewing out from Colonel Stubbs regarding an exposed flank and a trainee who had just been "killed" by running into the event horizon of an incoming wormhole.

"Oh please, do you actually think I'd come all the way over here on a red eye flight just to get away from paperwork for a day?" General O'Neill scoffed.

"Yes, in a heartbeat."

O'Neill cocked his head, wearing an expression that might have seemed contemplative to anyone who knew him less well than Turnbull.

"Yes, you're right, I would actually," he said cheerfully. "But that's not why I'm here. How are the new Atlantis teams coming along, Bob?"

"Don't call me Bob. They're being put through the course as fast as they can – they have total priority, after all. But even I can't train men and women to explore and fight on other planets if I have no money. Even after all the cutbacks, I've got six teams for the SGC and the offworld bases in my schedule, eight marine units for Atlantis, two for the Daedalus, one each for the Apollo and the Odyssey, and the crew for the next 304 to get ready, not to mention a new Russian unit. And until last month I had two British units here, damned SAS no less! Since when are the Brits part of this?" he exclaimed. "The joint US-Canadian extended exercises in British Columbia have been pretty much scrapped thanks to the DoD as well."

"You know,” O'Neill murmured, gesturing vaguely to the trainees, “these guys will probably see more than enough pine trees and mountains when they get through the gate or off a 304. Maybe they don't actually need to get used to the most abundant offworld climate right here on Earth. "

“Seriously, you’re telling me that’s why you cut the budget for the only exercise that simulates a full-length offworld mission? You’re full of crap, Jack,” Turnbull said irately.

“Trees and mountains as far as the eye can see on nearly every planet, Bob – it’s a remarkably uniform galaxy. You know, I never thought to ask Carter why that is anyway.”

"Because modified conifers are part of the Goa'uld environmental transplant process and grow quickly. But-but that's not the point! Look, I have no damn budget left. I'm bogged down in every direction by triplicate forms, waivers, risk assessments, vetting analyses and useless, pointless requisition forms!"

Stepping away from O’Neill, Turnbull sighed and composed himself, gazing at the ground for a neutral focus. "Look, this isn't a big or fancy base – we're little more than an offshoot of Groom Lake, hell, we even share half our facilities with them. Jack, I can only do so much... especially with so little, and it's a hell of an operation – often literally. You asked me to take four different training programs operating out of constantly changing temporary facilities in three different states and merge them into one unified, permanent operation based out of Area 51, and I did, but now you’re systematically dismantling and destroying that operation. So tell me, what was the point? I mean, look at me. You know me, Jack – this isn't the Robert Turnbull you know! I'm not the type to moan, and groan, and complain, but I am, all day every day because without the proper funding, this place just won't work. And it's destroying me. But then you knew that would happen when you asked me to take this command, didn't you?" he said accusingly, hearing his voice getting higher and faster with barely-contained emotion.

The major general's expression changed, all hints of his characteristic flippancy vanished, transitioning abruptly into his rarely seen but extremely effective no-nonsense, serious mode of talking.

"Hey, even I'm not that shallow or vindictive, so let me spell it out for you – our history isn't a factor here," O'Neill said, stabbing a finger at Turnbull's chest. "I picked you because I knew you were the ideal choice to head up this place, because I've seen the men you trained. Bob, I owe my life… hell, this whole planet owes its continued existence to men you've trained. You know that one of them is head of the military in Atlantis and another leads SG-1 right now, right? So regardless of our differences, I knew you'd do a hell of a job here. So why haven't you?" O'Neill said.

The change in O’Neill’s demeanour was drastic to say the least. Turnbull was quickly reminded why this man, who always seemed so annoyingly laidback and flippant, was the de facto head of the entire planet's defences against interstellar threats, and why he was personally responsible for saving it on so many occasions.

Turnbull took a deep breath, but it wasn't to calm himself. His voice dropped, becoming almost a growl.

"You know what, I can't work miracles. You want more personnel than ever, but you've cut my budget back to almost nothing. But hey, that's okay, because you're Major General Jack O'Neill, the golden boy of the Air Force, saviour of the whole damned planet and the favourite of President Hayes. If you want more men for no money you know just where to get it, why you’ll simply need to screw the guys underneath you. You can't run Homeworld Security if you don't have troops, or battle cruiser crews, or even scientists who know how to fire a goddamned pistol, but you'll be damned if you're actually going to pay for it!" he shouted angrily.

Turnbull no longer felt despondent and depressed, moaning about ultimately trivial issues – something had snapped, some pressure release valve had blown, and now he was furious his duty had been interfered with, a duty he had been specially and specifically handpicked to carry out. He knew he was stretching the line between informal banter and outright insubordination to breaking point, if in fact he hadn't long since smashed through it, but he no longer cared.

"I'll tell you what, Jack, insubordination be damned, I am this damn close to telling the Joint Chiefs and the DoD in general to get their heads out of their asses and give me the budget I want... that I need so that I can train men and women to protect the Earth and her allies, and if they have to go without chauffeured limousines and private jets so we can have an effective fighting force protecting this whole planet, I'll damn well make them, so help me God! So if you're not here to give me good news or a briefcase full of cash, get the hell off my base, senior officer or not!" he roared.

In his rage, he barely noticed a lot of the recruits, and even their instructors, stop what they were doing and turn to stare at their commanding officer, transformed from the dull, uninteresting man they knew into a suddenly furious, energised monster.

O'Neill almost took a step back, pausing several seconds before speaking. His voice was low, almost soft.

"We need the money because we have a fleet to build and keep secret at the same time. You can thank a pesky bunch called the Wraith for that, amongst others. A 304 takes a hell of a lot more time and money to get ready than her crew, and a lot of the guys in Washington want to start winding down the Stargate Program now that the Goa’uld and the Ori are pretty much finished, so yeah, your budget is getting cut – just not by me. But almost as importantly... I wanted to see what it would take to get you to fight for this, Pit Bull."

It was Turnbull's turn to pause and nearly take a step back, but for different reasons. Nobody had called him by his former nickname and unofficial call-sign in years, least of all Jack. Turnbull now understood that while the budget cuts had been out of his hands, Jack had deliberately gone out of his way to mess with deadlines and paperwork to antagonise him in order to force Bob Turnbull to the bottom and reawaken the old Robert 'Pit Bull' Turnbull he knew. Had he interfered with or adversely affected the training of these recruits?

"You cunning bastard. So that's why." He found himself grinning as they began to walk again, the tension falling away from him with every second as the soldiers, airmen, marines and their instructors quickly returned to their duties. "So… What, I get my budget back, and all I had to do was lose it with my boss? I need to try that more often."

O'Neill's expression didn't change, but there was a hint of friendliness there, behind the mask of mild confusion and irritation he maintained. It wasn't much, just a minor twitch at the corner of the mouth that suggested a suppressed grin. As soon as Turnbull noticed, it was gone, and O'Neill returned to being serious and professional.

"Actually, no, you don't – not all of it anyway, because I wasn't joking. We really are having problems with the 304 programme, not least justifying the expense and finding ways of keeping them hidden, so it does need all the extra cash it can get. But the main – and official – reason I came here is to talk to you about the Brits. It's still being cleared with the President and the Joint Chiefs, but apparently they want to train another five offworld teams, minimum. As soon as possible, I'm told. I can't give you the details yet."

"Five? Five! I don't have the space or the budget for one more team!" Turnbull protested. Every time he dealt with Jack O'Neill, he ended up shouting at him or arguing. Or both.

O'Neill sighed, and turned. "You know, I actually thought you'd be happy about that... Bob."

"Now why in God's name would that make me happy?" Turnbull demanded through gritted teeth, his anger flaring again.

"Because their Ministry of Defence want to expand and jointly fund this little outpost of yours as a prelude to a permanent offworld presence alongside our teams, on top of paying for their own teams. It works out at a little less than double the budget increase you requested."

Turnbull stood silently, stunned, as O'Neill walked back to the angular concrete structure that served as the centre of the camp. All in all, the meeting had gone surprisingly well.


End file.
